Recorder. The recorder is the one who gets it all down. Sitting quietly, slacks are better, the attentive tilt of the head, the hands at the ready, slim servants of the record, poised like predators about to strike the odd little keyboard that waits, used to the abuse that is about to be visited on it. All in the name of the record, the record that must be made, that will last indefinitely. Recorder. Ah, I don’t relish that job one bit, not for me the quiet stool, the weird little machine, the waiting.
if i had a recorder i would bring it around with me everywhere and record random sounds, words, noises and mistakes. Life should be recorded because you never know what you will find interesting tomorrow or in five years. You might want the voice of a friends calling you stupid or the noise of you taking pictures with an antique camera.
Recorders are musical instruments that are supposedly easy to play, which is why they teach them to children in primary schools. I can in fact play two recorders at a time, by putting one up each nostril!
The dumbest kid alive is standing in the hallway, looking as if his eyes were made of glass. Neither here, nor there, always far away, touching every motion with his mind.
recorder…he corded…they corded…decoded…dark words that cannot be taken back, he thought – he wanted to record them for posterity, as they corded together in bed, their minds in discord, each trying to uncode the other’s silences and whispers. cords, and cords, bound them everywhere.
recorder …he corded…they corded…decoded…dark words that cannot be taken back, he thought – he wanted to record them for posterity, as they corded together in bed, their minds in discord, each trying to uncode the other’s silences and whispers. cords, and cords, bound them everywhere.
played this recorded in fifth grade that made me just sick. Everytime class womuld start I would dread the moment I would be required to stand and play my learned piece, which wasn’t learned at all. Goosebumbs. Sweats. Why can’t the moment just come and go without remembrance. No one
A child’s initiation to the world of music. Either they were an instant virtuoso at Baa Baa Black Sheep or a dismal, squeaking failure. But they still don’t DECIDE anything like they told us.
I slipped my hand into my pocket, discreetly fumbling for my small tape recorder. I pressed play and continued to listen to the man’s rambling. He went on and on, bragging about his master plan. Little did he know that I was going to have the whole thing on tape where I could broadcast it.
He grabbed his microphone, on the ready to record what he heard. This was the interview of the year. He had been waiting for so long to hear from this guy. The guru, the source.
He couldn’t help but feel inadequate with anticipation.
i learned to play the recorder in elementary school, its plastic tube a gateway to the musical journey i would follow for my entire life. its shrill squeal would be the siren song gracing my families ears for months to come.
The thing that captures. A thing because who knew that we could take an object that would tap in to our own perception faculties, who knew that our perception faculties could be mimicked by technology to the point that we could show something we see?
Recorder. The recorder is the one who gets it all down. Sitting quietly, slacks are better, the attentive tilt of the head, the hands at the ready, slim servants of the record, poised like predators about to strike the odd little keyboard that waits, used to the abuse that is about to be visited on it. All in the name of the record, the record that must be made, that will last indefinitely. Recorder. Ah, I don’t relish that job one bit, not for me the quiet stool, the weird little machine, the waiting.
I played the recorder back and listend to my voice. It sounded odd, as if I was speaking from inside a tube or something.
if i had a recorder i would bring it around with me everywhere and record random sounds, words, noises and mistakes. Life should be recorded because you never know what you will find interesting tomorrow or in five years. You might want the voice of a friends calling you stupid or the noise of you taking pictures with an antique camera.
Recorders are musical instruments that are supposedly easy to play, which is why they teach them to children in primary schools. I can in fact play two recorders at a time, by putting one up each nostril!
The dumbest kid alive is standing in the hallway, looking as if his eyes were made of glass. Neither here, nor there, always far away, touching every motion with his mind.
the steam grew faster.. the heat was intense. our bodies fitting together.our minds in complete harmony. and then we ran out of film
it wasn’t any use.
to pretend like this wasn’t happening.
isn’t happening.
no use.
in the end.
there will always be letters and numbers.
tied to your seams.
corresponding with the moments.
you let down your guard.
The recorder is a woodwind musical instrument of the family known as fipple flutes or internal duct flutes
recorder…he corded…they corded…decoded…dark words that cannot be taken back, he thought – he wanted to record them for posterity, as they corded together in bed, their minds in discord, each trying to uncode the other’s silences and whispers. cords, and cords, bound them everywhere.
recorder …he corded…they corded…decoded…dark words that cannot be taken back, he thought – he wanted to record them for posterity, as they corded together in bed, their minds in discord, each trying to uncode the other’s silences and whispers. cords, and cords, bound them everywhere.
played this recorded in fifth grade that made me just sick. Everytime class womuld start I would dread the moment I would be required to stand and play my learned piece, which wasn’t learned at all. Goosebumbs. Sweats. Why can’t the moment just come and go without remembrance. No one
A child’s initiation to the world of music. Either they were an instant virtuoso at Baa Baa Black Sheep or a dismal, squeaking failure. But they still don’t DECIDE anything like they told us.
It’s ironic that the first instrument I learned to play is the recorder. And I really don’t know why.
I slipped my hand into my pocket, discreetly fumbling for my small tape recorder. I pressed play and continued to listen to the man’s rambling. He went on and on, bragging about his master plan. Little did he know that I was going to have the whole thing on tape where I could broadcast it.
He grabbed his microphone, on the ready to record what he heard. This was the interview of the year. He had been waiting for so long to hear from this guy. The guru, the source.
He couldn’t help but feel inadequate with anticipation.
i played the recorder
i learned to play the recorder in elementary school, its plastic tube a gateway to the musical journey i would follow for my entire life. its shrill squeal would be the siren song gracing my families ears for months to come.
The thing that captures. A thing because who knew that we could take an object that would tap in to our own perception faculties, who knew that our perception faculties could be mimicked by technology to the point that we could show something we see?
children’s instrument, poor man’s ocarina, like a flute but worse.
I have a small voice recorder that I use on roadtrips to list curiosities that I want to google when I get home.